


Both Sides of the Moon

by sunsetmog



Category: The Mrs Bradley Mysteries (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, F/M, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Murder Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-21 10:05:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17041703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunsetmog/pseuds/sunsetmog
Summary: George has a small family situation. Mrs Bradley insists on coming with him to sort it out. It's not a case but it feels a bit like one.





	Both Sides of the Moon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [croissantkatie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/croissantkatie/gifts).



> My dear **croissantkatie** , I hope you like this. I got to rewatch the episodes in preparation for writing this, AND I got to share them with someone else who'd never seen them before, so we're all winners here.
> 
> I've tagged domestic violence to be careful, but it's just a sentence referring to something that happened off screen. Tagging it case fic is pushing the bounds of credibility just a bit (it's barely a case fic, there's barely a murder) but better be safe than sorry.

"Madam," George said, with a knock at the library door that seemed rather belated given that he had already come inside and was in the process of closing the door behind him. 

Ah. An important moment, then. 

Adela put her book down on her lap. Outside it was getting dark, but inside the fire was burning and the lamps were turned down low. "Yes, George?" 

George looked tired. "I believe I may need some time off."

She closed her book. "Indeed?" 

"Just a few days, Madam. A small family matter."

"Indeed," she said again, putting _The Mysterious Affair at Styles_ down on the side table. "Anything I might be able to help with?"

"My cousin, Madam," George said. There was an elongated pause, followed by a rather reluctant glance in her direction. "He's been arrested for murder."

A small family matter indeed. She turned her attention towards the fireplace for a moment. Adela considered murder to be a common enough occurrence that she'd taken to responding to it in much the same way she responded to a change of staff in the scullery, which is to say, with sad resignation. Not, however, without caring. Murder was also something people would really rather believe only happened to other people, and other families. She rather suspected George was of the same opinion, and was wishing this conversation was happening to someone else, too.

"If only we could choose our blood relations," she said, turning her attention back to George. 

"Yes, Madam," he said, still a little awkward under the weight of the revelation. 

"Indeed," she said, ringing the bell. Gladys, the maid, arrived and bobbed a curtsy. "Gladys, Mr Moody and I will be going away for a few days. Prepare my belongings."

"There's no need," George started, but Adela silenced him with a small movement of her hand. 

"We will be leaving first thing in the morning, Gladys. Please ask cook to prepare an early breakfast."

"Right away, Madam," Gladys said, and Adela waited until her footsteps were echoing in the hall before patting the seat next to her. 

"Come and sit down, George, and tell me everything."

George sighed, and did not sit down, but he reached into his pocket and came out with a letter. "It's not a case, Madam. Knowing Alec, he very likely did it. But there's his wife. Peggy. Somebody needs to make sure she's looked after."

"Very well," Adela said, but she still held her hand out for the letter. 

George let out a breath, but handed the letter over anyway. Good boy. She unfolded it, glancing through its contents. From Peggy. Alec taken away by the police after a late night fight. The address of a boarding house by the coast. A request for help for her and the child. 

She looked up. "Child?"

"Peggy was married before. He died. End of the war, I believe. Mary must be 15 or 16 or so by now."

"Indeed," Adela said, glancing through the rest of the letter. She folded it back up and handed it back to George, who was hovering awkwardly by the chair. "Regardless of whether it's a case or not, I shall be accompanying you."

George let out a small sound. She raised a perfect eyebrow. 

After a moment, George nodded. "Very good," he said. Then, "Thank you."

She nodded. "You'd better go and pack."

He waited a moment before nodding again. He left the room, and she watched him go. His footsteps echoed in the hallway. 

Mrs Bradley picked up her book again, but her attention was rather lost elsewhere.

In the end, she closed it, and set her mind to thinking. 

~*~

They stopped for lunch along the way, after Mrs Bradley had finished reading _The Times_ and the journey had become somewhat tedious. The restaurant wasn't a patch on London, but there was a passable mushroom soup to start, and George looked liked he enjoyed his steak and kidney pie. The fish she'd ordered had been perfectly adequate.

"Tell me about your cousin," Adela asked once their main course was complete. "You haven't mentioned him before."

"Nothing to tell," George said, patting his mouth with the napkin. There was a crumb on his lapel and Adela leaned over to brush it away with her thumb. There was a slight flush to George's skin. "He's my cousin. Been in trouble with the police a bit, petty thievery, poorly planned out and ever more poorly executed. Let go from an office after he was found with his hand in the petty cash. I've seen him perhaps… twice in ten years, and one of those times was his wedding."

"And the other?" A bowl of spotted dick was placed in front of George, and a cup of coffee in front of Adela. 

"Another wedding. His brother's. Peter."

"And yet Peggy writes to you for assistance instead of her brother-in-law."

"Yes." George said. "Peter and Alec don't get on. And Peggy is, well. A formidable woman."

"And normally you're so fond of those." 

George gave her a look. It came coupled with a smile. She smiled back. 

"As you were saying."

"I can't imagine Peter and Peggy would have anything to say to each other. Neither of them suffer fools, and yet she married Alec."

"A fool?"

He considered. "Someone who doesn't always make the best of decisions."

"Well, we've all made those kinds of mistakes. I made them three times."

"You walked away, though. My wife did too. Although that's rather a different set of circumstances."

"Indeed," Adela said. She sipped at her coffee. "I've been thinking, George, and as the long nights start to settle in, I believe that it might be time for a little trip."

"The kind that doesn't involve anyone being murdered?"

"Humanity, George, will insist on keeping showing us its dark underbelly."

"Imagine if it showed us it less."

"One can certainly only imagine." She took another sip of her coffee. "No, George, I was thinking Greece, maybe. Or Italy. Or both. Turkey, perhaps. A tour."

George looked momentarily surprised, but his face settled into something blander. "I think you'd like that, Madam."

"But would you?" 

George's spoon stilled. "Not much call for a chauffeur on holiday, Madam."

"No," she said. "Not when the Rolls is here. I believe the Orient Express is an experience one must see." There was a pause. "I don't much like travelling alone, George."

"Maybe a friend…?"

"A friend," she said. "Yes. A friend." 

George's skin looked a little pinker. He went back to eating his pudding. 

"A continental tour, George. Do you have plans to see your daughter this Christmas?"

"No, Madam, she'll be busy. I plan to visit once the baby's born, in the spring."

"I shall make plans for our continental accommodation, then."

George looked at her. He was a kind fellow, thoughtful and interesting. Interested, too. Willing to learn. More than willing to learn from her, too, and it was the kind of world where all too often that wasn't the case. She looked back. 

"Very good, Madam," he said finally. 

"Indeed," she said, and under the table, she crossed her legs and her foot brushed his. 

~*~

Their first sight of the sea that afternoon was mired with rain and the onset of dusk. The hotel looked large and serendipitous, but a little tired close up. She took a room for herself, and another for George, and they took tea in the restaurant before George started to look like he'd rather be somewhere else. 

She gathered her things around her, straightening the plaid of her suit. "Very well," she said. "I believe it's time to go and meet Peggy."

"Very good, Madam," George said, and he brought the car around to the front door and put up an umbrella for her. 

The boarding house was away from the sea front, and came with a generous scent of boiled cabbage and damp. Peggy and her daughter had rooms on the second floor, and Mary — aged seventeen, and not quite the child Peggy's letter had suggested — made them tea on a little stove in the corner. There were only three chairs, and Adela took the one by the window, and took notice of every little detail in the room. 

"We're better off without him," Peggy was saying. "Useless lump of a man."

"Indeed," Mrs Bradley said, sipping at her tea. "I do find that the realisation that one's husband is a weight is the first step to freedom."

Peggy blinked at her. "He's my husband, Mrs—"

"Bradley," Adela said. "But the title is a courtesy. I've been married three times, but not any longer."

"I'm about to be widowed for the second time," Peggy said. "Unless they choose not to hang for murder anymore."

"Quite," Adela said. She let George take over the conversation, and watched Mary instead. A pale, angular girl, she twitched at every sound and refused eye contact with anyone. She kept glancing out of the window, down to the street below. Adela leaned back in her chair, just a little, just enough to see. There was a young man over the other side of the road, looking up. _Quite_ , Adela thought. Quite. 

"What happened?" George was asking Peggy. 

Peggy sniffed. "He was in his cups, wasn't he? Not home with his family. Spending the money he should have been bringing home down at the pub. And he got in a fight. Didn't know him from Adam but thought he'd ruin everyone's life just for the fun of it. The man died. Hit his head, apparently."

Mary's hand on the cup slipped, and it clattered down into its saucer. 

"Be careful, Mary," Peggy snapped. "Where's the money coming from for another one of those, I ask you."

"Sorry," Mary said, but her attention had turned back out to the road again. 

"Have you seen him?" George asked. 

"Once," Peggy said. "Asked him what on earth Mary and I were supposed to do now."

"And what will you do?" Adela asked. 

"I've got a friend," Peggy said. "Lives over near Barrow in Furness. She has a shop. I think we'll go there - she'll know if there's anything nearby that'll helps us get set up again."

"No," Mary said. "I don't want to." 

"What you want doesn't matter," Peggy said. "I'm going to be the one supporting us now. And we can't stay here. Not when everyone knows."

"There's no chance he didn't do it?"

"He said he hit him," Peggy said. "He said it wasn't hard and he didn't see him hit his head when he fell, but he's still dead, isn't he? He's still dead."

"Yes," George said. 

"We need money," Peggy said. "We've got to get half way across the country and find somewhere to stay."

"I'll help," George said. 

"Thank you," Peggy said. 

Mary looked desolate. "I don't want to go."

"Shush, girl," Peggy said. 

"I think we should leave you alone," Adela said, graciously getting to her feet. "Thank you very much for the tea."

Peggy's nose tilted up. One of those. Mrs Bradley knew how to deal with these kind of women. She smiled.

Downstairs, George held out the umbrella so that she could get into the car. The rain was more drizzle than anything, but the young man who'd been staring up at Mary was still there, leaning against the wall at the other side of the road. The rain had flattened his hair and his coat was pulled up around his neck. 

"Do you see him, George?" she asked, her gaze deliberately focused elsewhere. 

"The young man? Yes."

"I believe that might be the reason Mary doesn't see Barrow in Furness as the perfect end to this sad story."

"She's only seventeen."

"Many a poor decision has been made by a young woman of seventeen," Adela said. "My poor decision was Margot Philips, and I was sixteen. I had what we used to call a pash. It was reciprocated and utterly glorious and a tremendous secret, but she came back from the Easter hols engaged to her brother's best friend."

The back of George's neck was pink. It was a marvellous look on him. "Madam."

"Don't look so scandalised, George. Did our visit to my finishing school not teach you anything?"

"It taught me a lot," George said, without glancing back at her. "Where to, Madam?"

"The police station," she said, sitting back in her seat. "I believe I'd like to meet your cousin."

"Very good, Madam."

"Don't look so pinched, George. It's not a good look on you."

He glanced back over his shoulder at her, and risked a smile. "Better, Madam?"

"Better," she said, and smiled back. 

~*~

Alec Moody was a sullen piece of work. "I didn't hit him that hard," he said. "And he deserved it."

 _Don't they all_ , Mrs Bradley reflected. "Any particular reason he deserved it that night?"

"No," Alec said, not meeting her gaze.

That absolutely meant _yes_. "Indeed," she said. "Well, I hope he deserved it enough to end his life over it."

His chin tilted up. He believed he did, then. 

"Aren't you concerned about what's going to happen to Mrs Moody and Mary?"

"Peggy won't see them starve."

"I'm sure." She nodded. "What does Mary want to do with her life?"

"She's a good girl," Alec said sharply. 

"I never suggested she was anything but," Adela said mildly. The boy on the pavement. She couldn't help but wonder. Next to her, George shifted in his seat. 

"I'm going to help Peggy get settled," George said. "Make sure she's looked after."

Alec glanced between George and Mrs Bradley. "I'm sure," he said. George flushed a little. 

Adela gave him a careful look. "Any message you'd like us to pass on?"

"Tell Peggy to make sure her and Mary are well away from here, soon as."

"Of course," Mrs Bradley said. They took their leave, and Adela detoured to the front desk and asked to see the inspector. As with most uninspiring men, he blustered about trying to find a reason not to give Adela the information she requested. Men were ridiculous. She flattered his ego a little until he gave in and offered her a cup of tea. It took less than half an hour, at which point she swept out into the mizzle of the early evening. Flattering uninspiring men was a frequent task best undertaken with speed and efficiency so that it didn't undermine the rest of the day.

George was waiting by the car. "Madam," he said, holding the umbrella over her. 

"It's Mary," she said, once they were both in the car and George had settled a blanket over her lap. "Or rather, her young man. It was his father that your cousin hit."

George leaned over the seat. "Did the inspector tell you all that?"

"Of course not," she said, straightening her blanket. "I read his notes whilst he was arranging for us to have tea. Multiple prior arrests for disturbing the peace. A drunkard, I would assume. I suspect some disparaging comments were made regarding Mary. Affray followed. Then, sadly, death."

"Well, well."

"Join me for dinner," she said, sitting back in her seat. "We'll go and see Mary in the morning."

George settled himself in his seat. "Very good, Madam."

"Indeed, George," Adela said. Her smile felt sad. Life was too short, sometimes, and cold. 

~*~

"Join me for a walk, Mary," Mrs Bradley said, early the following morning, nodding at George, who gave her the briefest of nods back. "I'm sure your mother and uncle have some things to discuss."

Mary looked like a rabbit in the headlights. Mrs Bradley smiled at her. Mary stayed pale and angular, but she also looked a little scared.

"Maybe you can show me the sea front whilst it isn't raining," she said, holding out a hand. 

Mary nodded awkwardly, pulling on her coat. 

Adela waited until they were half way down the road before she started to speak. "What's his name?"

"What?"

"Your young man. The son of the man who was killed."

Mary coloured. "Billy, Madam. Billy Myers."

"And is he kind to you?"

"Very, miss. Quiet and kind."

"Indeed." Mrs Bradley had never had much time for insipid men. The time she had spent on them seemed almost wasteful in the grand scheme of things. Exactly the reason divorce was invented. "And what are your plans?"

"He wants to marry me."

"And do you want to marry him?"

"Oh yes. More than anything." She looked more colourful than Mrs Bradley had seen her so far. "He's ever so good to me, miss."

"A good start," Adela conceded. "And his father?"

"He deserved it," she said fiercely. "He used to take a belt to Billy's mum. And to Billy and his sisters."

"Ah," Mrs Bradley said. "And your father?"

"Step-father," Mary corrected. "He didn't take a belt to my mum but he's also not always… good to us."

It was a common enough story, but it didn't mean Adela liked to hear it. "I see," she said. There was a pause. "I had cause to see the police notes regarding your step-father's case. In particular the medical notes. There seems - to me at least - a certain degree of evidence that Billy's father's injury happened at some point prior to your step-father's rather inopportune entrance into the story. Some evidence of an existing head injury and some mention of a fall. I've suggested to the Inspector that some further investigation into the 24 hours prior to his death might yield some relevant information."

Mary looked at her like she was speaking a different language. "How do you know all of this?" Her deference was forgotten. 

"Just because women are not always issued with invitations doesn't mean that we don't have a right to be wherever we want to be." She smiled at her. "I don't believe your step-father was the cause of the head injury that killed Billy's father. It won't save him a prison sentence but it might save him from something worse."

Mary let out a breath.

"That's better," Mrs Bradley said. "It's always important to just remember to breathe in and out." She offered Mary her arm. "Now, I believe I have a book for you which you may find interesting. I wrote it myself. I'll send you a copy."

"Yes?" Mary looked a little hesitant. 

" _Married Bliss_ ," Mrs Bradley said. "Every woman should have the right to plan their family."

"Indeed," Mary said, an echo of Mrs Bradley earlier. 

"Indeed," Mrs Bradley said, and smiled. 

~*~

"Well, George, now that that's all settled and Mary's engaged, how do you feel about a small detour on our journey home?"

George glanced at her. "Schemes, Madam?"

"I wouldn't like to say," Adela said, but her smile was playful, and George responded in kind. 

 

~*~

Margot Fitzwilliam took one look at Adela and rolled her eyes. 

"Adela Bradley."

"Margot," Adela said, with a smile that only felt around 50% fake. "How delightful."

"Did we know you would be dropping by?"

"Not at all," Adela said. "I was required to stay by the sea for a few days. I remembered as we left that you lived near."

There was a pause. "Where are you staying now?"

"I'm sure there's a hotel nearby," Adela said, but she kept her attention fixed on Margot. Behind her George stood by the car. 

Another infinitesimal pause. "You must of course stay here overnight. Stephen would hate to miss you."

Adela took the opportunity to glance towards the garden. She disliked Stephen Fitzwilliam intensely, and Stephen disliked her intensely in return. They disagreed on every fundamental perspective the world over, and that was without him knowing that his wife had once had an ill-advised love affair with her when they were sixteen. Adela would be surprised if Stephen had ever laughed at anything in his life. And who could live a life with no laughter or joy? Margot certainly had, or at least had since she finished at school and walked straight into a staid marriage with her brother's best friend. They had two equally joyless sons, which Adela suspected was their only remaining thing in common, since her son was the stagnant type too. 

"Marvellous, darling," Adela said, turning her attention back from the garden. "George, bring the bags."

"George?" 

"My chauffeur," Adela said, walking inside. "It won't be too much trouble to make up a room for him, will it? Marvellous."

It was entirely possible, Adela mused, that Margot Fitzwilliam had quite forgotten how to smile. 

~*~

They met in the library late in the evening. Adela wearing her new gown. The household was quiet, Margot and Stephen turning in far too early for her liking. 

"George," she said. "Are they treating you well?"

"Impeccably," he said, which sounded like a lie. He caught her eye. "Mrs Margot Fitzwilliam?"

"Nee Philips. Her of the finishing school pash, yes." She smiled. "I believe choosing the wrong person at sixteen is an inevitable part of growing up."

"I liked a young lady called Rosemary when I was sixteen," George said. "Rosie. We used to walk out for a bit. She married the butcher's apprentice in the end. He didn't come back from the war. Left her with two young girls to bring up alone."

Adela smiled, but it felt sad. She reached out and touched her hand to his, just for a moment. "You're alive," she said. "Don't regret that for a second."

He looked down at his hand. At her hand. "I don't, Madam."

"Good," she said. "Do you have plans for the rest of your evening?"

He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. "I had considered going to bed."

"Oh no, George. It's far too early." She raised an eyebrow. "I have a set of cards in my room. Care for a small wager or two?"

His eyes were always so warm. "Of course, Madam," he said. "I believe I was ahead the last time we had a wager?"

"No," she said, meeting his gaze head on. "I believe I have the upper hand here."

He smiled at her, and held his hand out to help her to her feet. "Yes, Madam," he said. "I rather believe you do."

"Come along, George," she said, and led the way upstairs. 

~*~

George slipped out of her rooms at around two in the morning, adjusting his jacket. 

Adela, resplendent in silk pyjamas, watched him leave from her bed. Such a glorious boy. Together they really were a formidable team. 

"Good night, George," she called quietly after him. 

He smiled back at her, softened at the edges. "Good night," he said. 

Then, from the hallway — "What on earth."

Oh, _Stephen_. Endlessly joyless. 

"Get back to your room," Stephen snapped. "Back to the staff quarters."

Adela rolled her eyes, and climbed out of bed. 

"Is there a problem, Stephen?" she asked, coming to the doorway. George, caught on his way back to the back staircase, looked frozen. The bounds of propriety really were fiercely rigid. 

"Yes, there's a problem," Stephen said, standing in the doorway to the bathroom opposite. He was a staid, neatly moustached gentleman of increasing years and pallid girth. "You may think it's acceptable to dally with the help—"

Adela raised a single eyebrow, pointedly. She waited for Stephen to go red in the face. She had always wondered just how red he'd go if he ever found out what she'd got up to with his wife in the copse beyond the shrubbery. She was getting a little taster of that now, it seemed. Assumptions really were so terribly tiresome. 

"What's going on?" Margot asked, from the doorway to her bedroom down the hall. 

"Nothing," Stephen snapped. 

"Nothing at all, Margot," Adela said, as if the whole thing was a tiresome bore, which it was. There was a pause. She glanced at George. "George was just coming back to bed, that's all."

George flushed. 

"Weren't you, George?" she asked. 

"I will not have this dalliance going on under my roof," Stephen spluttered. "Not under any circumstances. I will have to ask you to leave before you corrupt my wife—"

Adela glanced towards Margot. "Indeed," she said, and was rewarded with a flushed tilt of Margot's chin. "We'll be leaving in the morning. Come along, George."

George, looking rather like he'd been caught somewhat off guard, awkwardly edged his way back into Adela's room. 

"Good night, Stephen. Margot," Adela said, and with a smile, closed the door. 

She met George's embarrassed gaze. 

"You could have said we were playing cards," he said. 

She leaned forward and brushed a piece of lint off his sleeve. "I could have," she said. "Would you rather that's what we were doing?"

He looked at her then. She smiled. 

"George," she said. 

"No, Madam," he said, and this time he touched her hand. 

"Good. We do make a formidable team," she said, and laced her hand with his. "Now, come to bed, George. It's late, and we've got a terrible reputation to maintain."

"We do indeed," George said. "We do."

"Indeed," Adela said, and smiled.


End file.
